Taxes
by sheepythewise
Summary: Kaiji expresses the hatred he feels towards his owner as he's mocked and humiliated while Kazuya is tending to his own tasks. Kaiji insults those tasks during a fit, and Kazuya must reprimand his "pet". Boukai, warnings for non-con, asphyxiation, mentions of taxes.


Author's note: this is the first fanfic i wrote in a pretty long while, and ironically, i wrote it about a year ago. i added some things here and there to make it longer, but it's still pretty short, and could use more substance, but it was written on a whim and partially as a joke. boukai was my favorite pairing at the time, and it's still up there. anyway here's wonder wall

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Ofttimes, when the captor wasn't busy with things that didn't involve his captive, they would lay on his bed, or sit on his couch, and Kaiji would feel the other's fingertips all over him. Sometimes sexual, sometimes "affectionate," but the chills and the goosebumps and the bile boiling in the pit of his stomach were always there, no matter what. Sometimes, they were overpowered by dread, discomfort, fear. Fear that it would escalate, fear that Kaiji would be bleeding, fear that he would act on his words. There was also a feeling of perpetual disgust in himself, when his body showed signs of liking the attention—his only attention, as the blacksuits were only allowed to wash him and bring him food—when he felt those fat, calloused fingers stroking his jaw. Stroking his neck, his collarbone, his throat, and the softer the touches got, the more likely he was to let out a small noise. A noise he couldn't hold back, and a noise that caused Kazuya to let out that heinous, disgusting laugh. Sometimes spit flew from his mouth.

"Damn, Kaiji!" The young master looked away from the papers he had been preoccupied with, some sort of legal documents, to place both hands on his toy. One held his jaw, the other continued stroking his throat. "Yer so damn needy, you know that?"

He wasn't.

"For fuck's sake, I can't even go over my taxes without you whinin' and beggin' for more. I'm a busy man, Kaiji, and as much as I'd love to lay you on this couch and run my fingernails all over yer _perfect_ body," his tone changed at the word "perfect", "I got responsibilities. Not that you ever did, haha!"

Anger and humiliation were emotions that Kaiji often experienced, seemingly exclusively, since having moved to Tokyo. Things never going right, people laughing at him, people mocking him, dangling his hopes and aspirations right over his head like baiting a fish. Kaiji cried a lot from those emotions, from the stress they brought and from the futility pooling in his chest, and he wanted to fight, wanted to yank the line and pull the fisherman down into the water with him. His eyes gave off an intense glare at the boy currently toying with him, the man currently baiting him, and his brow furrowing, and he bared his teeth. Kazuya paid no mind. He just leaned in closer, fat lips spreading into a wider grin than before. "You do want more, don'tcha."

"Get away from me." Kaiji's voice was quiet and soft, shaking with rage and escalating arousal. He was fighting back tears, and if he had to, he would bite the other like a rabid dog. He learned a long time ago that the more he fought and resisted, the more likely Kazuya was to act on his urges, to put Kaiji "in his place", and while he definitely wasn't the type to sit back and roll with the punches, he knew when to avoid those punches if they were literal. Just because he didn't struggle and attack Kazuya physically, though, didn't mean that he wouldn't cave in verbally and submit.

Kazuya laughed, as was expected, and he pulled away, as was expected. He really was busy, despite his general attitude, and although he would sometimes say he was just for effect or to talk down to his toy, he was usually true to his word. Kazuya never lied, unless those lies were to instill fear in others, or passed off as "unwarranted information".

Cutting off his fingers again. Throwing him to his blacksuits to do with as they would please. Blinding him, amputating him, killing him, eating him. There were so many things Kazuya said to Kaiji that had him crying just at the thought of it happening, because they were all likely realities. Kazuya was the sort who enjoyed watching his favorite shows and movies with others, and one thing he liked to have Kaiji sit in on was, as the young master referred to, enactments of what he'd like to happen to his favorite pet. It was Kazuya's favorite form of media, starring whomever chose to skimp out on paying what they owed him, or whomever decided they'd laugh at him that day, not knowing who he was.

But he knew that his owner would never do anything like that to him. His owner wanted him. His owner loved him dearly, as he'd always say, and Kaiji felt the intense urge to vomit every time he said it. The hatred Kaiji had for that man was more than anything he had ever felt before. He hated Endou, he hated Andou, he hated his boss, he hated Tonegawa, he hated Hyoudou. He hated Miyoshi. He hated losing. He hated having no money. He hated always being down, always being stepped on, always being betrayed, always suffering and spiraling down into debt and depression and desperation and hopelessness.

All those things he hated, and the amount that he hated them combined would never, ever, reach the extent that he hated the man rubbing his hand.

Tears started pouring down his face, wettening it and turning it bright red, as he stared at Kazuya and imagined all the things he wanted to do to him. He was scared of his own hatred, his own rage, and he knew that at the first chance he'd get, he would rip the man's throat out, stab out his eyes, rip out his teeth, smash his skull and brain matter into pieces, simply for the things he did to him and said to him. He was sniffling, and his lip was quivering, and Kazuya noticed this.

Of course he noticed, and of course he reached out to wipe away those tears. Kaiji was his pet, his favorite thing, the light of his life, and even if he said he wanted to kill him and eat his flesh so he could have him forever, he didn't want his treasure being sad. The backs of the fingers against his wet face and the look of faked compassion and condescension on Kazuya's made him cry even more.

"Kaiji, baby," he cooed, and he let out a little sob. "Shhh, baby, doll, come on! Yer the most important, okay? Come on, lemme hold you—"

"No!," came a shout as he was being pulled into the other's arms and lap. "No, don't touch me!"

"Calm down, baby," he spoke as if the other's struggles and cries were nonexistent. "I can love on ya and do my taxes at the same time. It ain't no big deal, you don't gotta cry!"

"I'm not crying over your stupid fucking taxes!" His hands gripped Kazuya's shirt and did their best to push him away. He knew, even in his berserked state, that attacking him outright would be a bad idea. A horrible idea. "I hate you so much, I hate your fucking guts, I hate-I hate-! Stop touching me!"

Kazuya's smile fell. His brow furrowed, and the gentle, firm hands that were wrapped around his waist were now gripping his wrist, and squeezing his throat. Fury was once again overwhelmed with fear, and Kaiji's eyes widened and the tears stopped, and the sobs turned more into desperate cries. What had he said? He said he hated the man all the time and he'd just laugh it off, what was so different this time? Why was he reacting that way, when all other times he'd just held Kaiji closer, and force him to accept his twisted interpretation of care?

"Don't talk shit about my fuckin' taxes."

What?! He was strangling Kaiji out of anger because he called his taxes stupid?! Kazuya was prone to having mood swings and saying and doing irrational things, but if he hadn't been losing oxygen and having his vision begin to blur and contort, he would have let his jaw drop in disbelief. He'd never seen Kazuya genuinely angry before; at least, not to this extent! "What are you saying—"

Kazuya forced him onto his back, roughly, against his desk, with his hand still clenched around his throat. "My taxes mean fuckin' everything to me. You know how much money I get back from them? You know how fuckin' important it is to keep up with them? Ya gotta save all your receipts, gotta add up the dividends, and when your W-4's come in, the first thing you do when you get home is go over them to figure out how much money yer makin' back. You ever do your taxes, Kaiji? Huh?!"

Kaiji was crying out harder, and more desperately, however crushed his voice may have sounded. Kazuya had never been this angry, had never been this intense, even during the first nights when he wasn't accepting his "love". He knew Kazuya was crazy, and he'd always been scared of him, but his fear was now bordering on the hatred he had felt for him. What would he do? Would he strike him, cut him up—incapacitate him? His sobs grew in volume, and he tried his hardest to pry the man's hand off his throat however weak he may have been, choking out incoherent apologies. His vision was swimming with darkness, and his head felt like it was floating along in a mixture of chill and warmth, and he couldn't see Kazuya, and he forgot who he was for a blissful, perfect moment. He forgot he was struggling, and he forgot he was alive.

Kazuya could see the look on Kaiji's face, and knew what it meant. He was brought out of his own plane by his grip going limp and registering the colorless pallor of his face, and the hand loosened up on his throat, stroking it and caressing it like he had with his cheeks before. His face wasn't contorted with mania, and his grotesque grin was returning. "Kaiji, man, that was a little mean of me. I don't like bein' mean to my puppy, you know that! I'm re—eal sorry, baby, can you ever forgive me?"

As soon as he was let go, Kaiji began swallowing huge intakes of air, and his vision returned. His head reached a stable temperature, color returning to his face, gasping like a fish out of water. His wrath was reinstilled, and before he could even see Kazuya clearly again, he tried his hardest to shout, to defend himself. "G-go to hell!" The object's voice was strained, and hoarse, and barely qualified for conversational volume.

"C'mere, lemme make it up to you." The owner let out a dark chuckle, and while the previously offending hand remained on the other's throat, being severely, sweetly tender as if to heal it, coaxing him back to full awareness, the other trailed down his chest, and without any build up, found itself between Kaiji's legs. Squeezing, groping, massaging. Kaiji wished he had passed out. He wished he could have stayed in that peaceful aether, ebbing along in equilibrium, on the twilight of unconsciousness where he had no idea who he was, who Kazuya was, and what fate he had been cursed to suffer. If he had the energy and the strength, he would have begun crying again.

It wasn't every night, but it was often enough to feel like it was. Kazuya's praising or rearing would result into being sexually-based. He would start out petting him like the dog he called him, but his hands would move lower, and lower, and soon Kaiji felt like he was being impaled, burning, stretching, reaching. Like he couldn't breathe, like he was being invaded, and he could feel those wet kisses and those sharp bites. He would feel impossibly full, all the way through to his stomach and to his lungs, through his throat and through his brain, and with each withdrawal he would feel like his organs would come spilling out. He would scream, and he would be afraid, and he would cry for him and himself, and a white-hot pain would pierce him and at the end of it he would be feeling so good, so euphoric, he couldn't help but be vocal, and loud, and hide his face. He would be forced to thank him, and a part of him would mean it as his tears were licked away. His disgust was magnified during that state, and occasionally, he would feel such severe regret and shame that he forced himself to regurgitate one of his only meals of the day, crying alone, lest he be mocked. It was something that marked him with perpetual dread, but depending on the circumstances, he could accept it easier than other times, and those times, it often hurt less.

At that present moment, however, Kaiji could recognize that it was going to be a time where he was just too scared to do otherwise, too scared and too weak, regardless. He could keep crying, and begging him not to, beseeching for mercy and forcing compliments and adoration to deter his assault, but those pleas would go on deafened ears, and they would be worthless, and he'd be moaning the other's name while his body stretched to accommodate his girth. His body would be peppered with kisses, love bruises, and he would cry more, and he would burn. Because he made the mistake of insulting Kazuya's taxes.

"You look so pretty right now, Kaiji," he muttered as his lubricated fingers entered his body, to prepare him. He was a sadist, but not a masochist. What made these instances even worse was how insatiably nice the things Kazuya would say would be. Hearing about how much he loved Kaiji was far worse than hearing about how he wanted to keep his limbs as a prize. "You're so sweet. My one and only. I shouldn't be so damn mean to you. I should make you feel good, real good. I make you feel good, don't I, Kaiji?"

The captive gave the most pitiable expression to his captor. He was letting out the smallest whines, being forced to listen to what was being said, to feel what was forced to be felt. Kazuya had already deprived him of his oxygen moments prior, and if he were to refute him, more than that may happen to his neck. Besides, he was tired. He answered the question like the other wanted to hear it, albeit ridden with hiccups, and hoarseness that prevailed. "Y-yeah." His hands were covering his face, and the tears were beginning to stop. What was the point? He had no energy, either way.

The teen's grin widened, and the fingers inside his hole grew more tender, and Kaiji's sounds became more earnest. Rather than painful stretching, they stroked his inner walls, and teased the area around his prostate. Kaiji gasped and squirmed a bit, and clenched his eyes shut. He pretended this wasn't happening, preparing his temporal escape. "You mean the world to me, Kaiji. I didn't mean what I said earlier." Of course he didn't. He never did. "You're my most important thing. You're what keeps me goin', you know? Seeing you and makin' you happy is always the highlight of my day. I really do love you, Kaiji."

Kaiji bit his lip. He couldn't run away. He wanted to stop hearing his name be said out of that mouth.

"You're all I got, Kaiji." As he finished preparing the other, his hands pulled out and promptly slicked up his member. It was thick, which made it even more painful, despicable—enjoyable. He pressed the tip to Kaiji's entrance, and rubbed his stomach to help him relax even more, and to try to even his fearful breathing. A quick thrust, and he was buried to the hilt.

Kaiji let out a loud, terrible cry, and his back arched. His hands tangled themselves in his hair, and his eyes shot wide open, drool escaping down the side of his mouth. He couldn't breathe again—it felt like the thing was drilling all the way into his lungs, like it was searching for his mind, and instinctual terror that had momentarily been emplaced due to his prior asphyxiation welled inside him and made it hard to accept Kazuya. It made it hard to accept Kazuya, and accept his "love." Kazuya continued to caress his torso, and he placed fat kisses on his jaw, and on his neck, and what increased his despair was knowing how much he would like this after the pain subsided, and once he'd climaxed..

"I love you, Kaiji." Kaiji cried harder. Kaiji writhed more. "I love you more than my tax returns."

He had heard from someone in the past that people weren't born to suffer, that he held the future in his hands. Every bad thing he received in his life could be turned around, because that wasn't what he was born for. He was born for great things, and he was what he made of himself. No one could decide his fate for him, because every conscious decision he made had an impact on what was to be

Kaiji was born to suffer. He was born for this. He was to cry, to hate, to wallow in despair.


End file.
